


To everything a season

by tea_for_lupin



Series: Mythology of Severus and Minerva [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Snape Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-03
Updated: 2012-09-03
Packaged: 2017-12-20 11:07:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/886539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tea_for_lupin/pseuds/tea_for_lupin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The excerpt quoted is from Pablo Neruda's poem 'Sonnet XVII (I do not love you)'; I first came across this beautiful work in the FFN story 'In Secret' by Playing Scrabble with Orcs. I'm afraid I simply couldn't resist applying it in this chapter; the quoted verse, at least, seems so apt to Severus' complicated relationship with Minerva.</p></blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

If Minerva McGonagall kept private her own inner demons, then she guarded even more fiercely her gods and her ghosts. So it came as a considerable surprise to almost everyone at Hogwarts when she announced her intention to take a sabbatical, of unspecified duration, following the end of the school year – and on the Isle of Iona, of all places. Not amongst the Muggles, of course, but with the druidic community that existed within and alongside the ancient Abbey – if one knew where to find it.

When Minerva passed the wards of the Castle to Filius on the night before she was due to leave, she saw the little man stagger for a moment as the magics settled into his bones; she knew the feeling, the coiled charms sleeping beneath her skin, the sense of a second awareness, inhuman but somehow living nonetheless, that echoed in her mind and gradually came to rule her pulse and her breath, her waking and her sleeping.

The wards themselves had come to Minerva after Dumbledore's death, but so riven and sick with shock had she been in that moment she had scarcely registered the weight of the Castle as it sank into her.

When Snape had returned as Headmaster, she had faced him boldly in the office that had been for so short a time her own. 'I suppose, Severus, that you expect me to pass the wards into your control?'

'There are many things I expect from you, Minerva,' he said, leaning back in his chair with his long white fingers steepled beneath his chin, 'and the first is that you address me from now on as Headmaster Snape. Is that clear?'

She looked down at him from her own considerable height, over the tops of her spectacles, just as she had when he was an insolent teenager lounging in Transfiguration class; how much has changed since then, she thought. But this was not worth a battle; there would be other times and places to stand on principle. With as great a disdain as she could muster, she said icily, 'As you wish, Headmaster Snape.'

A smile ghosted across his lips. 'Subservience always did become you so poorly, Minerva.'

She flushed, but replied evenly, 'And you have never been as skilled at being masterful as you like to think.' A flicker of a pause. 'Headmaster Snape.'

His face hardened. 'To return to the matter in hand,' he said coldly, 'I do not intend to take the Castle's wards onto myself. I am content to permit them to remain with you.'

Minerva was temporarily thrown. 'I beg your pardon?'

'Is it lack of hearing or of comprehension that plagues you?' Snape said sharply. 'I expect you to continue to hold the wards of Hogwarts Castle as you have done since Dumbledore's unfortunate demise. After all- ' slim pale wrists showed beneath exquisitely tailored cuffs as he stretched out both arms '—you must concede there is little to be feared by one in my position, as things now stand. However- ' and he lent in, intent now, black eyes holding hers '—you will swear to me to mention this matter to no one – not staff, not student, no one. Do you understand? I am giving you a token of my trust, Minerva, and if you should break it the consequences to you will be singularly unpleasant.'

'I understand.' But she did not, completely; not then.

Snape seemed hesitating on the verge of saying something more; but if so, he thought better of it, and dismissed her with a wave. Minerva had swept out, puzzled and angry, and more heartsick than she had been able to admit to herself or any other.

Over the following weeks and months she had kept her promise to remain silent about this strange arrangement between herself and Snape; in any case there were too few she could trust, and none of them needed an extra burden. But she watched Snape, and wondered; saw him handle the Carrows, seeming to endorse their reign of terror while subtly holding them back; saw his face grow ever whiter and thinner, which no one else seemed to notice for they feared him too much to look at him; and, half-guessing, heard Dumbledore's last words over and again in her mind - not as a plea for his life but as a command.

Finally she came to accept it; Snape had left her the guardian of the Castle so that she would better be able to protect the innocents who still lived there. And while this did not mitigate to any great extent the horror of day-to-day existence at Hogwarts, it gave her something which she clung to more tightly than she would ever confess to anyone: a thread of hope, that there was indeed a plan to end the Dark Lord's ascendancy, however convoluted and nightmare-like this plan might be. Thus even on the nights when she went to bed weeping – another thing she would confess to no one – each morning she was able to rise again dry-eyed.

Now, the sudden lightness that she felt at handing the Castle into the care of another left her almost giddy.

'A strange sensation, most strange indeed,' Filius was saying. 'Still, I suppose I shall become accustomed to it in time. I hope I shall be able to fill your boots adequately in your absence, Minerva, my dear – though not literally, of course.'

Minerva smiled and lowered herself into her comfortable armchair. 'Dear Filius, you will excel yourself as always. I have the utmost faith in you, of course; I would certainly not be leaving you as Acting Headmaster, otherwise!'

'And you cannot say when you will return?'

She shook her head. 'Forgive me, Filius, but I can't.' Her lips twisted wryly. 'Far be it from me to think I would ever say these words, but I need to heal, and to make some kind of peace with the past – and much though I love Hogwarts, I can remain here no longer for the present.'

Filius clasped her hands in his own. 'No one can ask more of you than you have already given,' he said warmly. 'You have been tested beyond any of us, since well before the Battle, and you have worked unceasingly since then. No other witch or wizard could have given us strength and hope as you have done these last years.'

Minerva, embarrassed, made a dismissive gesture, but Pomona broke in from her seat by the fire, where she had been silently watching. 'I heartily agree with everything Filius has said.' She waved her wand and the teapot danced around three tartan-patterned cups in a cloud of fragrant steam. 'However, since you clearly don't wish to discuss it at the moment, Filius and I will instead drink a toast to you – a toast of tea,' she added with a giggle; and Minerva was still so glad to hear the sound that even though the joke was, as always, appalling, she could not help smiling, although tears also pricked at her eyes.

Silently, solemnly, her two friends raised their cups to her; and Minerva bowed her head in wordless acceptance.

The next morning, early, before anyone but the house elves was awake, she took her small carpet-bag and walked through the still summer air to the edge of the grounds; the promise of heat hung in the cloudless sky but the grass was still wet with dew. Outside the great gates she paused for a moment, remembering Pomona's parting words the previous night. The short plump witch had wrapped Minerva in a warm embrace and then stretched up on tiptoes to kiss her on the cheek. 'Do your penance if you must, Min,' she had said softly, 'find your peace and then come home to us.' And with a smile and a look that showed she understood more about Minerva than the other witch had thought possible, she had trotted off to her own rooms.

Minerva took a deep breath and settled her hat more firmly on her head. 'Well, we shall see,' she muttered, and Disapparated without looking back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The excerpt quoted is from Pablo Neruda's poem 'Sonnet XVII (I do not love you)'; I first came across this beautiful work in the FFN story 'In Secret' by Playing Scrabble with Orcs. I'm afraid I simply couldn't resist applying it in this chapter; the quoted verse, at least, seems so apt to Severus' complicated relationship with Minerva.

For two months Severus lay unconscious, within a half-breath of the unknown land behind the Veil. By the time his wounds were at last fully scarred over, he had returned to a form of waking, moving life, but he was still haunted not so much by dreams as by hallucinations, and they were filled with serpents and blood.

At length these too faded, and Severus could consider himself and his surroundings with clarity.

His voice was gone, torn out and consumed by tooth and venom; he horrified himself with the sounds that were now all of which he was capable. Fortunately silence was not in and of itself distasteful to him, and it had the advantage of discouraging others from bothering him with too many questions. Still, he wished for some more elegant solution than simply scratching with quill on parchment at those times when he needed to express himself more fully than by nod or shake of head, or raised eyebrow.

More than this, moreover, he wished for something to occupy his time. So Severus dedicated himself to finding a suitable spell that would allow him to speak without speaking, but nothing that he came across satisfied his meticulous standards. No matter; he would create the spell that he required. He had invented spells before; this was one of the few powers, the few parts of himself of which he was certain, at that time. Other aspects came back to him more slowly, piece by piece, out of sequence, as he worked to perfect the Fumographia charm. Potions, teaching, the Dark Lord, a boy with his mother's eyes. Curses, reparations, Quidditch matches. A war. He wondered why he had not died.

In any event, this was a different life, very different, to that he had lived before his arrival on Iona; it took a great deal of adjusting to, and at times Severus wondered at himself for staying. Was it contentment, or merely a kind of resignation, the unconfessed recognition that he had nowhere else to go? Severus was not sure. He did not care to examine the question too closely.

Minerva had been the one to bring him here; Severus knew this because he had questioned the Chief Druid, who had Healed and tended him through his long and poisoned illness, about the matter. Why she had chosen this place, he was not certain; but he was grateful for it, he supposed – to be sure he would have found a lengthy convalescence at St Mungo's worse than unbearable, and as for afterwards – he did not know what sort of reception he could have expected. As more of Severus' memories returned to him, he wondered how much Minerva knew of his role in the war; at times, cursing himself for his weakness, he wished he could have the opportunity to explain himself to her. He didn't care about anyone else, certainly not Potter, who surely knew the truth in any case; and he assumed from the fact that he remained mercifully free from being pestered by newsmongers that everyone believed him dead.

But Minerva – yes, he cared what she thought… Still the time passed and he heard nothing from her, not an owl; and that held him back in his turn from sending to her. Even damaged as he was, he still had pride; he supposed he should not be surprised if she wished nothing further to do with him, after the things he had done, but he would not be seen to beg for her attention.

He did not think of Lily, save occasionally to realise that he did not, in fact, think of her. Perhaps the guilt that had carried him through the years of his activity as Dumbledore's double agent had indeed been burnt away in the purgatory of his year as Headmaster of Hogwarts; perhaps it had bled out from him after he had been attacked by the Dark Lord's snake. Severus didn't know, and he was glad of the opportunity to forget.

Gods he had never believed in, but there was nonetheless a deep and blessed peace in this place that gradually settled into him. At first it could not; it rebounded from his soul like rain off the drought-hardened earth. Yet still it fell around him, and he softened, slowly, and let it in, and it soaked into him, so that as one year passed, and then two, Severus came to feel… cleansed. Not of darkness and pain themselves – they would always be with him, or so he imagined – but the darkness that existed in him was no longer like coal but like polished ebony, bright, not dull; and if a light shone on it, it would shine back.

He brewed potions for the infirmary, as he had at Hogwarts; he took part in the seasonal rituals of the Druids, sceptically, and yet he found he did not wish to stay away. When he was not researching he read, voraciously, as only someone with a love of words can read when they have been denied that pleasure for so long that they are starved. Severus had had little opportunity for such indulgence following the Dark Lord's return.

On days when the Druidic community's buildings and grounds oppressed him, he passed through the stone gateway that connected the Magical and Muggle worlds of the island. In spring there were wildflowers the like of which he had never seen before; the glory of them was beyond anything he had understood possible, and his dark eyes drank them in. But the weather was often inclement, and Severus had never been one for spending a great deal of time in nature. Instead his haven in the Muggle community was the local library; small, but impressively appointed for its size, and he would pass long afternoons there, browsing in the warm silence.

One day he pulled a slim volume of poetry from a shelf, but his fingers fumbled and he dropped it. Picking it up, he read on the open page:

> I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
> 
> or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
> 
> I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
> 
> in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

Slamming the book closed, he reshelved it without glancing at the remainder of the poem; but it was too late to prevent an image of Minerva forming in his mind, as she had looked beneath him the last time he had taken her to his bed – eyes closed, her head arched back as he twisted a fistful of her long black hair, shot through with grey, around his hand. The smile on her face was one of shameless ecstasy.

Now, as then, Severus' guts writhed with pleasure and triumph at the thought that he had been the one to bring her to that point, time and again; Merlin knew that look had driven him over the edge of his own orgasm more times than he could count.

He shut those thoughts away, as swiftly as he had shut the book; remembering those moments was as pointless as dwelling on the times he had been put under the Cruciatus Curse.

It was pure chance that Severus saw Minerva on the day she arrived; he had glanced from his window on that rain-damp summer morning, and there could be no mistake about that tall severe figure below him, the firm purposed stride. And the sun had, for just a few moments, come out from hiding; it lit the courtyard brighter than Severus thought he had ever seen it, so that white flowers flamed and flowed in the wind like quicksilver, and Minerva's dark robes gleamed deep green, until the clouds blew in again and the rain resumed, and she passed into one of the buildings out of his sight.


	3. Chapter 3

When Minerva arrived, it was raining, a sea-borne haze fine as mist, enveloping her in the scents of salt and stone and damp grass, so that it seemed that the island itself had breathed her in deeply and exhaled her back into herself.

It was, however, not quite as simple as she had hoped, to put Hogwarts out of her mind; after only a couple of days Minerva found herself itching to owl Filius and reassure herself that all was well. She restrained the urge; Filius was, after all, a perfectly capable Acting Headmaster – and should anything actually go direly wrong, would contact her. The defect, Minerva reflected, as she braided cords together, lay in herself, her own inability to relinquish responsibility when appropriate.

 _To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven,_ she thought; half-remembered verses from the Muggle bible. _A time to labour and a time to rest; a time to be born, and a time to die…_

After the Battle, when Harry had pulled her aside and said, urgently, 'Professor – the Shrieking Shack – Snape is there-' she had barely waited long enough to Summon her broom and she was in the air, hair and robes streaming; and she had found him, bloodied and broken, so close to the Veil, so close.

Minerva had stanched the bleeding as best she could, Transfigured his cloak into a thick woollen blanket to hold at bay the chill that threatened to steal the last of Severus' life away, sent her silver tabby to fetch Hagrid; she did not have the strength to bear this fallen back to the Castle alone. They brought him in secret to his own chambers, not a hard thing to do in the morning's chaotic aftermath. Minerva Summoned Blood Replenishing potions, venom antidotes, bandages; tended him and set wards that would tell her if he woke – or not. She did not expect him to, not really – but she was Minerva McGonagall, and she let nothing go that she cared for without a fight.

The next day, when Severus appeared stable enough to withstand a Side-Along Apparition, Minerva took him to Iona to place him in the care of the Chief Druid, Conall MacDiarmaid; a childhood friend of Minerva's mother, and quietly well-known, amongst those who knew about such things, for his skill against Dark Magic.

'If you can, save him,' she said; she knew she sounded terse, but she was so very tired.

Conall had looked at her over Severus' scarcely breathing form, and after a moment had nodded. 'I'll do all that I can, lass.'

Minerva half-smiled; ancient as Conall was, she would always be her mother's bairn to him, even old as she currently felt, she supposed. 'There's one more thing, Conall. I don't want anyone to know he is here. He is… a hero of our war, for want of a better term, but he has been through more hells than you can imagine and I want him to have peace, for as long as possible. I will be his Secret Keeper, if you will cast the charm.'

On her return to Hogwarts it had not been easy to deflect questions about Severus' fate; Harry's, of course, were the most persistent, and there was the additional, conspicuous complication of the lack of his portrait in the Headmistress' office. Minerva had managed, however; and although it saddened her to see how quickly Severus' role in the war was glossed over, she comforted herself that it was presumably what he would have wished.

And she had words, strong ones, shouted ones, with the image of Albus Dumbledore. Oh, she understood; but all the same she could not understand.

The weeks went by and eventually Conall owled her to let her know that Severus was on his way to recovery, though his voice was destroyed; how it hurt her to learn that, to know that such an exquisite part of him was gone. But, assured as she was that Severus was healing, she let him be; again, she presumed that this was as he would have wished it. And after all, she had so very many demands on her own time.

Nonetheless, she missed him; she thought of him often, but in the moments when she went to put quill to parchment and write to him, she was uncharacteristically at a loss as to what to say. Dear Severus, how are you? Worse than inadequate. More than one quill had been hurled across the room in disgust. Perhaps naturally, as the weeks spilled over into months, and the months into a year and then two, continued silence became the simplest option.

Minerva never accepted her own cowardice for long, however.

Black cord over red, green cord over black, red cord over green. There was contentment to be found in the daily immersion in the rituals of sun and moon and earth, listening for the voices of goddesses and gods she had all but forgotten, letting silent starlight settle on her skin. It could not satisfy her for always, but for now – yes, for this season it was enough.

The first time she glimpsed Severus, he was crossing the courtyard with its ring of rose bushes, glorious with red and white between the thorns, Levitating before him a set of flasks filled with a green liquid, all in a meticulous row. His back was to her, and Minerva paused in the doorway, unwilling yet to be noticed or to speak. Her purpose in coming here – well, the most important - had seemed so clear when she settled on making the journey; but now she was less sure that she was acting for the best.

Sleeping dragons, and so on.

And still, she could not bear –

But she did not wish to name what it was she could not bear.

~~~~~

'Hello, Severus.'

Severus drew a deep breath and turned, set down the bowls of moly and of staghorn powder on his workbench as calmly as he could. Taking his wand, he made a delicate gesture. A thin stream of smoke spiralled from the end of it, forming itself into neatly-lettered words that lingered a few moments before shredding apart and dissolving. _Good evening, Minerva._ He did not add _It has taken you long enough,_ although he thought it.

A look of appreciation and surprise crossed her face. 'A most refined charm – one of your own devising, I presume?'

Severus accepted the compliment with neither deprecation nor thanks. _It is._

Minerva gestured to his ingredients. 'Please, don't let me interrupt your work.' She looked less haggard, better-nourished, Severus thought, even if there was more grey in her neatly-pinned hair than when he had last seen her. As he set a small silver knife to work and stirred the liquid in the cauldron, Minerva continued quietly, 'It has been a long time, Severus.'

_I suppose it has. I note, however, that your talent for platitude is undiminished._

Minerva's mouth twitched; Severus' did the same. They both relaxed, a little.

 _And what brings you here?_ He left it deliberately ambiguous as to whether he meant 'this room' or 'this island'. _Business or pleasure? – as they say._

'Both, as it happens.'

_And which am I?_

'Also both – or so I hope.'

Severus' question had escaped him before he could rein it in; Minerva's reply, it would seem, likewise.

The knife stilled its chopping.

Severus cursed himself; fool that he was, slipping so easily into believing them back at Hogwarts, bantering and baiting each other before falling into bed to continue their game at another level. But Minerva – she had still risen to the bait – he risked a glance in her direction and found that she was watching him with an expression he could not fathom.

'I am sorry,' she said. 'That was – entirely presumptuous of me.'

 _Don't apologise to me, Minerva._ With a wave of his hand Severus set the blade to its rhythm again. _It is unbecoming._

'That apology is the very least of what I owe you.' She hesitated. 'Severus, I-'

 _Don't bother._ The grey smoke of the words was tinged with red.

Minerva sighed, the short exasperated sound of resignation that Severus remembered well; it habitually signalled that she was about to turn on her heel and stalk away. He did not want her to leave; not yet.

_Wait._

She waited; but the look on her face was challenge. Severus accepted it, taking Minerva's chin in his cool white hand, cradling its angle gently, tracing his thumb with the utmost delicacy over her lips.

'Can it really be this simple, Severus?' The words were a many-layered whisper. His fingers brushed the line of her throat, her collarbone, slid round to grasp and caress the back of her neck.

 _No. But this is as good a place to start as any, after such a long time - don't you think?_ Ah, he loved this still, wanted it so, in ways that he rarely permitted himself to want anything - the way she shivered under his touch, the way the ethereal throb of the pulse in her throat grew visibly quicker.

A long few heartbeats; and then Minerva pressed her lips to his with the fierceness he remembered as clearly as if it were yesterday.

Later, because it was dark, and because they were both half-dreaming, and because neither of them had come through the war unchanged, Minerva & Severus spoke to each other in ways they would not have dared to do in daylight.

When their words as well as their bodies were spilled and spent they lay side by side in Severus' bed, not sleeping, not yet. And then in the soft silence Minerva sought and found Severus' hand, lying loose on his bare chest. He tensed involuntarily; the feeling of her fingers folding over his own, knuckle against knuckle, skin against warmed skin – it was more intimate than sex; instinctively he distrusted it -

Minerva did not take her hand away.

At last, Severus let himself accept her touch; and Minerva's eyes closed as he fell asleep.


	4. Epilogue, I

'Potions or Defence?' Minerva asked, pinning her dark hair deftly into its customary bun.

 _Is there a context to this question, Minerva?_ Severus glanced up from his book. _Or is this part of some elaborate guessing game, with the rules of which I am unacquainted?_

'If you were to teach again. Would you choose Potions? Or Defence?'

 _Defence._ There was no hesitation; and while Severus' eyes had returned to the page before him she could tell he was no longer reading.

'Well, that's settled then.' Minerva tapped the parchment in front of her. 'Filius owled me today, mostly to wish me the best of the season and so forth, but also to ask my thoughts regarding a couple of matters. And I quite agree with him that it's unfair to ask Harry to defer his Auror training for another twelvemonth, so if you don't mind starting halfway through the school year-'

The expression on Severus' face spoke volumes. _Do you mean to tell me that Potter-_

Minerva shook her head in exasperation and picked up a quill. 'We can argue about Harry another time, Severus.'

He stood and moved to stand behind her, his hands resting lightly on the back of her chair. _And then - make up?_

She leant her head back against him briefly, a small but undeniably catlike smile playing at the corners of her mouth. 'Oh yes - most assuredly.'

~~~~~~~~  
 _Dearest Filius,_

_The very best of Christmas wishes to you, my friend, and I must say I am sorry to be away from the Castle at this time of year; I am sure the decorations are as usual an exquisite sight to behold. Iona, while beautiful, is rather more spartan._

_You are correct about Harry; he should indeed have the opportunity to commence his chosen career sooner rather than later. As it happens, there is someone here who would be eminently suitable for the DADA position, and is keen to take it up. I anticipate that we shall arrive together, probably late on Boxing Day, to allow a little time for settling in before the students return._

_Now, as to the other matters in question..._

~~~~~~~~~  
A chorus of welcome greeted Minerva as she opened the door of the staff room that evening, her traveling cloak still damp with snow, carpet bag in hand. But as she stepped inside even Pomona, with all her warm-hearted unflappability, was unable to suppress a cry of shock. The figure that followed the Headmistress through the doorway was too darkly sardonic to be a ghost, too familiar to be believed.

Filius recovered first, hurrying forward to shake Severus' hand fervently. 'I won't ask how it's possible,' he said, 'but welcome back, Severus, welcome back.'

Severus inclined his head, a little stiffly. _Thank you, Filius._

The Charms professor drew an appreciative breath. 'Marvelous, simply marvelous,' he exclaimed. 'When you are settled, Severus, we must discuss this eloquent charm of yours - it is your own creation, I presume? So many applications- and the intricacies involved-' Hearing the slight cough that Minerva gave, Filius managed to contain himself and added quickly, 'Ah, yes, but when you are settled, as I say.'

The very faintest of smiles touched Severus' thin lips. _Of course, Filius - it would be a pleasure._ Minerva was even fairly sure that he meant it.

There was a slightly awkward silence. Clearly making her best effort to fill it, Pomona asked politely, 'Ah - will you be taking up your old rooms in the dungeons again, Severus?'

'A very good point, Pomona,' Minerva said, before Severus could reply. She clapped her hands twice and a youngish House-elf appeared with a crack.

'Binkle welcomes back Headmistressy McGonagall and Mr Professor Snape!' he chirped with a broad smile and a bow. 'What can Binkle do for Headmistressy?'

'If you could take my bag and Professor Snape's to my quarters, please,' Minerva said briskly. 'No need to unpack them; we'll see to it ourselves.'

There were a couple of audible gasps as Binkle Disapparated; and then suddenly most of the staff members appeared very interested in resuming the conversations that had been interrupted when Minerva and Severus arrived. The latter, with a look that was part relief and part scowl, stalked over to one of the sideboards and helped himself to a substantial glass of Ogden's Old.

Minerva glanced at Pomona. The plump little witch put down the Herbology journal beside her cup of tea and came to stand beside her old friend. 'All is well then, Min?' she asked softly, her gaze resting on Severus. 'You found your peace - and did your penance?'

Minerva looked down at her with a smile that was only a touch wry. 'Indeed, I've brought him back with me,' she said.


	5. Epilogue, II

Severus and Minerva had walked the distance from Hogsmeade to the Castle in silence. The night was clear. Stars hung breathless, like snowflakes that had forgotten to fall to earth, and each step was the pressure of the hand that probes the numbness beneath layers of scars, finding that the old wounds will no longer bleed.

As the door of the staff room finally closed behind them Severus felt himself relax. He had survived the ordeal, and was simultaneously grateful for and amused by Minerva's high-handedness.

_A touch dramatic, don't you think?_

Minerva raised her eyebrows. 'Would you have preferred the alternative?'

He supposed that he wouldn't.

The cold air of the corridor was softened at the edges with a faint scent of nutmeg and oranges, but above all the Castle still smelt of itself; dust and armor polish, flagstones and age. Not quite as it had been, of course; a great deal of repair work had been necessary, Minerva had told him. Walls and windows smashed down in blasts and blazes of coloured light - or so he assumed; he had not seen it. And then rebuilt; not quite the same.

In the darkness, as Minerva's breathing steadied and slowed, Severus smiled.


End file.
